Broken
by ramenpandaa
Summary: They are bloody, brutal, and vicious for a world carefully watching. But deep down they are still humans, humans tortured and broken beyond comprehension. Clato. Alternating POVs. Rated T because it's the Hunger Games.
1. Incipit

**Author:** ramenpandaa  
**Fandom**: _The Hunger Games_, Suzanne Collins  
**Story Title:** "Broken"  
**Character/Relationships:** Most of the characters involved in the first novel. Cato/Clove.  
**Rating:** T  
**Warnings:** Spoilers for the first book. Violence, minor bad language, death. Classic _Hunger Games _stuff.  
**Wordcount**: 2,393 (whole story)  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything. All characters, settings, and proprietary language are owned by the author of the work from which this is derived.

**INCIPIT (Clove)**

Clove still remembers the day she learned Cato's name.

It was her eighth birthday.

A Saturday.

She was dressed in her favorite outfit- a soft green halter top dotted with sky-blue flower, midnight-blue jean capris, comfy black sneakers scuffed from four years' worth of wear and tear.

Her family wasn't rich by any means.

Her mother, Esmeralda, was a morphling addict, unable to cope with reality after her sister and best friend were both slaughtered mercilessly in the second quarter quell.

Her father, Oberon, was worn down by years of hard work supporting his wife's drug habit and the mouths he had to feed.

Clove had five siblings.

Had.

Eleanor. Disappeared 52 N.E. Eight.

Ondrew. Disappeared 54 N.E. Seven.

Percey. Disappeared 57 N.E. Nine.

Irina. Disappeared 59 N.E. Eight.

Vincent. Disappeared 62 N.E. Nine.

Her father would leave with a child and return with vials of clear, swirling liquid.

So when Clove's seventh birthday comes around, 63 N.E, she's scared.

Her mother lies in bed, unspeaking, eyes glazed, a yellow pallor to her skin.

Her father goes out for the day.

He's dressed oddly, in a shiny silk top hat and his best breeches and a white button-up shirt and a midnight-blue tie Clove never knew he had.

Clove watches him patter down the dirt road out of their tiny house until he's out of sight.

She goes to her mother's bedside and sits down on a rickety wooden stool.

Clasping her mother's wrinkled, veined hands within her own, she begins to speak, weaving tapestries of romance, fantasy, intrigue, bold princes and beautiful princesses, evil witches and terrifying monsters, true love, jealousy, sacrifice, everything and anything she can imagine.

The sun is setting, spreading its fire across the mountains as her father comes home.

His hat is a bit crooked, his shirt creased, his pants and shoes dusty brown and black. He's carrying his customary cardboard box in his arms, which he deposits by Esmeralda's beside.

Oberon smiles sadly at Clove before walking straight to his room, closing the splintered, rough wooden door slowly, gently.

Clove rises, stretching out the kinks in her legs and arms, yawning. As she leaves the bed, she swears she can see a single glistening tear on her mother's cheek.

Her eighth birthday isn't quite the same.

Esmeralda still lies on her cot, unresponsive, immobile, eyes unfocused, drifting in a hazy somewhere between dreaming and reality.

But this time, when her father goes out in his top hat and nice breeches and button down shirt and midnight-blue tie, Clove comes along.

Her father told her that they were going somewhere important and that she should dress nicely, that she would want to make a good impression.

So this time Clove does not look out the window as her father walks the path out of the Shell.

She does not spend time with her secret stash of books she found in the basement or tell stories to her mother.

Instead, she walks with her father down the battered path, past the shacks and houses and mansions, past the shops of the square, past the smoking, greasy factories of the industrial district.

And suddenly everything becomes clear.

Clove screams and tries to run, her heart pounding.

Then everything melts into darkness.

When Clove wakes up, she's in a small rectangular room with no windows and single door, faintly etched, with no handle.

A small black band is wrapped around her left bicep, and she follows its wire to a single, large machine with a small green line moving up and down across the screen.

The door opens slowly and a man steps in.

He has glittering black eyes, a thin, malicious smile, thick bushy eyebrows that give him the semblance of constant plotting, thinking, conspiring.

Before Clove can speak, he swiftly tears off her armband, grabs her by the arms, and drags her out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

They make their way through countless corridors, twisting and turning until Clove's head begins to hurt.

Suddenly the man stops at seemingly random door in a long hallway that stretches indefinitely to the left and right. It bears a single word on a brass nameplate: _Incipit._

Clove knows the word from her hours of poring over stolen, hidden, books late into the night. _It begins._

The man pulls the door open, pushes Clove in, and slams the door right behind her.

Clove looks around cautiously. Four velvet couches are arranged in a square shape, facing inwards. Three people are seated already, and Clove slides, almost awkwardly, into the fourth one.

She looks around.

To her left is a boy about her age, short and scrawny, with tousled ebony hair and bottomless black eyes. Apathetic, weak, and reckless.

Directly facing her is a girl, tall and rather muscular, with long blonde hair tied in a braid down the side and fierce green eyes. Insecure, frightened, desperate.

To her right is another boy, a veritable giant, spiky dirty blond hair and-

His clear blue eyes with tiny flecks of green and gold set Clove reeling in shock.

She knows those eyes.

* * *

_Clove trudges slowly through the square, her feet dragging on the smooth gray stones. She pulls her torn rag of a jacket closer around her body as the rain falls in sheets, drenching her hair, her clothes, her shoes, masking the tears slowly falling from her eyes._

_She can't go home. She was supposed to find something useful to bring home. Food, or money, or something. Papa had taught her some tricks, but she didn't want to use them. They didn't feel right._

_Papa would beat her for sure if she went home empty-handed._

_He would call her weak, useless, pathetic. A poor excuse for a human being. _

_But wasn't she a better human being than him if she refused to steal, cheat, lie, plunder?_

_Clove pulls her useless jacket even closer, shivering as the cold raindrops fall steadily against her, streaks of ice across her skin. The light patter as the drops strike the pavement is soft and rhythmical, calming almost. Clove begins to stumble across the square, fatigued, helpless. _

_The opening of a large metal door catches her eye as a soft light emanates from it, juxtaposing the almost tangible gray that smothers the surrounding landscape. Her hopes fall quickly when she realizes what building it is._

_It's the training gym._

_A small boy walks out, a training bag slung over his shoulder. He shuts the door carefully, pops open an umbrella, and begins navigating his way through the maze of ever-deepening puddles dotting the plaza._

_Clove slumps down heavily against a tree._

_She may as well not go home. What is waiting for here there? An estranged, unresponsive mother as good as dead. A violent, hot-tempered, father stretched to the breaking point. A sociopathic, destructive older brother._

_Clove closes her eyes and lets the tears flow, leaning back against the tree, losing herself in memories._

_Suddenly she feels something dabbing against her cheek. She jolts back to consciousness, eyes wide in fright. _

_A pair of clear blue eyes, flecked with gold and green, full of concern, meets hers. The boy she just saw leaving the training gym grins and wipes away her tears with a clean white towel._

"_You'll be alright," he whispers softly. He drops a paper sack into Clove's lap before taking off his own jacket and handing it to her. _

_She stares back at him, surprised into muteness. He smiles sadly at her before standing up, turning, and walking away, deep into the gloom._

_Clove quickly pulls his jacket around her. It is some stretchy, warm fabric, smelling of wet grass and spring, comforting. She peers into the sack, which is full of food. _

_Clove looks in the direction the boy went. She sees nothing but shifting gray and dark branches reaching out like clawing hands. And secretly, she lifts three fingers to her lips and into the air._

* * *

**A/N: **Blehhh, not much better than the first one. How is it? _  
_

Yes, I kind of paralleled Clove/Cato's story with Katniss/Peeta's. And Madge's.

The training gym is a public one where people think they can go to practice to get picked. The real training center is on the outskirts and only authorized, selected candidates are allowed in.

The story will alternate Clove and Cato's POV.

Review please! :D


	2. Crack

**CRACK (Cato)**

Cato used to feel.

His heart used to be whole, unbroken, human.

He doesn't anymore.

His father's beatings, his mother's yelling, his sister's gradual withdrawal and suicide.

Everything rests on Cato now.

If he feels, he will break.

He knows it.

But when he looks into the girl's eyes, those liquid emerald eyes with sapphire and silver flecks, he feels something stir inside of him.

* * *

_Cato slowly opens the large metal door, the silver doorknob turning easily. The golden light of the training center lobby spills out into the foreboding, impervious gloom beyond. The soft patter of raindrops threatens to lull him into sleep, aching and tired as he is from intensive practice._

"_You leavin'?" the receptionist calls out from behind a polished wood desk. "Be careful out there. Sounds like it's raining missiles." Cato nods and waves with a grin. He's strong and determined, but friendly too._

_He steps out, closing the huge door gently and pulling an umbrella out of his training bag. The glow from the training center is gone, and all around there only exists a mass of almost-tangible gray nothingness. It doesn't matter to Cato. He'd know the way from the training center back home blindfolded._

_He starts to make his way through the square, careful to avoid plunging into any of the ever-growing puddles dotting the square. On impulse, he looks up from the ground, to his left. _

_A small silhouette catches his eye. He can barely make it out in the gloom, but it seems to be a young girl. She stumbles across the monochrome landscape, before collapsing against a tree, its craggy branches looming. _

_Cato feels overwhelming pity for the little girl. He checks inside his training bag, finding a brown paper bag filled with snacks he didn't eat. Two oranges, string cheese, and a plastic container of blueberries._

_He begins to make his way towards the tree. He was right; it's a young girl that seems to be about his age. Long straight black hair drenched with rain. Torn, worn, dirty cloth shoes. A rag of a jacket surrounding her thin frame. Even in the darkness he can see tears streaking down her face. He pulls out a cloth and dabs at her eyes._

_She jolts and looks up at him. Her eyes are a brilliant green, refractive like emeralds, dotted with sapphire and silver, round and liquid with overwhelming pain, suffering, sadness. He smiles warmly, and drops the bag of food into her lap. Looking over her again, Cato decides to give her his jacket too, and turns around, walking back to his home._

_When he arrives at the Wren mansion, he shivers, something chilling him to his very core. He touches the doorknob, cold as ice. As the door swings open, Cato peers in. The place is as dark, darker even, than the smothering, murky fog he just walked through. _

_Cato trudges up to his room, ready to take a warm, refreshing shower and treat his aching muscles. As he walks up the staircase, he sees his sister's door open, light spilling out. _

_And screaming. He hears his mother's yells, his sister's screams, the thwack! of his father's stick. _

_Cato stands frozen in the middle of the stairs as the noises progress. He can barely make out some words. Failure. Disown. Leave. Die._

_The screaming stops. Cato begins to move again._

_And then, the crack of a gunshot._

_Cato stands frozen again, thoughts racing through his mind._

_His mother and his father begin yelling and screaming again, this time at each other. Cato takes the opportunity to begin sprinting back up the stairs, almost tripping multiple times, until he manages to rush into his room, and slam to door, collapsing against it._

_There's only one explanation for what happened._

_But Cato can't bring himself to think it._

_That's impossible._

_It couldn't have happened._

_No._

_That wasn't it._

_She couldn't have done that._

_There is a sharp rap at the door. Cato stands up and opens the door, his face stoic, any trace of emotion gone._

_His father, Zeus, towers over him, his dark features twisted into an unreadable expression. Part sadness, part anger, part satisfaction, and wholly evil. His mother, Razi, stands at his side, absolutely expressionless, every part of her prim and proper, no sign of argument, every little gray hair tucked into a perfect bun. _

_Cato knows what his father is going to say. He stiffens imperceptibly._

"_Moira is dead," Zeus spits out._

_Cato keeps his face calm and controlled, robotically walking out of his room and into the room next to his. _

_All he sees is red. Red streaming from the bullet hole in her head, red pooling around her body, staining the carpet, red covering the gun she clasps in one hand._

_Cato silently curses himself. He knew this was going to happen. Zeus and Razi had put so much into Moira, training her for the Games, for eternal glory and fame. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't throw a knife, or swing a sword, or shoot an arrow. And she was much too kind, to compassionate to kill anyone._

_Except herself._

_Zeus' voice, as sharp as a sword, cuts into Cato's concentration._

"_It's all up to you now, boy."_

_That's when something snaps in Cato. He can feel it._

_Something shatters in his brain, his heart, his soul._

_A single lightning bolt flashes brilliantly outside the window._

* * *

**A/N: **Wow, that took forever. It's just background on Cato. How was it? Review please! :)_  
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